


maybe everything is alive in the motionless train

by Siria



Series: After the Other [6]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: mcsmooch, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-02
Updated: 2008-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Two flasks of tea. Six packets of Taytos. Egg mayonnaise sandwiches," John says, "chicken and bacon, ham salad, tuna and sweetcorn..." The carrier bag rustles some more. "Ploughman's and roast beef? Jesus, Rodney, we're going to Jeannie's for the weekend, not on an expedition to the moon."</p>
            </blockquote>





	maybe everything is alive in the motionless train

**Author's Note:**

> For Jenn, who wanted Irish boys. Thanks to Cate for betaing.

"Two flasks of tea. Six packets of Taytos. Egg mayonnaise sandwiches," John says, "chicken and bacon, ham salad, tuna and sweetcorn..." The carrier bag rustles some more. "Ploughman's _and_ roast beef? Jesus, Rodney, we're going to Jeannie's for the weekend, not on an expedition to the moon."

"Contingency planning," Rodney says, huffing as he heaves his small suitcase and John's shapeless old kit bag (proclaiming _St Fintan CLG_ on the side in faded lettering) up onto the overhead rack. John's bag is twice the size of his, probably holds nothing more than a couple of pairs of boxers, his toothbrush, and a different black t-shirt; Rodney's, on the other hand, has been carefully filled to make sure that he can be clothed, entertained, cleaned, and protected from citrus for at least two weeks. Four, if he turns his boxers inside out.

"For a three hour train trip." There's another, decisive rustle as John sets the bag of plastic-wrapped sandwiches back on the table, and a certain scepticism to John's tone that Rodney doesn't entirely appreciate.

"Things can happen!" Rodney says, settling down next to John and kicking his feet up on the seat opposite them. "Engines breaking down, or bridges being out, or, or, being trapped in the bogs of Offaly. I'm pretty sure they still practice cannibalism there, you know. Bottles of TK Red Lemonade to accompany the gamy favour of human flesh. Contingency plans are _important_."

John squints at him from underneath the dark fringe of his hair. "This train doesn't go through Offaly, buddy."

"As far as you know," Rodney says darkly, folding his arms. Things happen as soon as you get outside of the boundaries of Dublin County. You get turned astray, you end up on some mountain road with no sign-posts and plaid-wearing culchies called John Joe and Eilís. Rodney's heard stories.

They're on the first train down on a Friday morning, and though Heuston Station is already buzzing with commuters flooding out along the platforms to catch buses and taxis and the Luas into the city centre, the 0700 to Limerick Junction (_Now standing at platform eight_, comes the stilted, recorded announcement over the intercom system, the tinny recitation of time and place that Rodney's heard so often he can say back by heart, _calling at Kildare, Portarlington, Portlaoise, Ballybrophy, Templemore, Thurles and Limerick Junction. Change at Limerick Junction for Limerick and Ennis_) is almost empty.

It's one of the older trains, all dull brown laminate walls and dull brown, high-backed seats, one of the ones that seems like it hasn't been quite clean since about 1973; but there's no one in the carriage apart from them, and as the train rattles and sways slowly out from Heuston and through the sprawling miles of Dublin's encroaching suburbs, they can slouch comfortably into one another, Rodney burrowing further down into the soft cotton of his hoodie while John settles in against his side, lean and warm.

Rodney keeps up a running commentary about the towns they pass through—the ugly, newly built stations in Adamstown and Newbridge, the dilapidated Victorian stations that flash past in Kildare and Portarlington, Monasterevin and Portlaoise (John peers out through the growing drizzle and says thoughtfully, "I threw up in a flower bed in the main square there once.")—commentary that's perhaps embroidered just a little.

"I don't think they actually do that," John says a little later, wrinkling his nose at one of Rodney's more involved stories about the inhabitants of Tipperary.

"_With their cousins_," Rodney hisses, because in this instance, he knows his info is sound, but John just laughs softly, his _har har hars_ muffled by the soft fabric of Rodney's hoodie.

The rain gets heavier the further south and west they go, and a couple of miles outside Thurles, there's an almighty crack of thunder and all Rodney can see through the windows is a blurred, surrealist landscape of grey and green. "Spring in Ireland," Rodney says in disgust, and thinks with longing of their comfortable couch back in Dublin, and the _Battlestar Galactica_ marathon he could be engaging in right this minute.

"Starbuck's hot," he says, and John is nodding in sleepy and unquestioning agreement just as the train gives a shudder and a jerk and comes to an unexpected halt. Rodney peers out the window, but there's nothing but indistinct green fields for miles around. As backwards as he's sure Thurles is, he doesn't think this is the train station. "See," he says, poking John in the side, "I _told_ you this would happen, but would you listen? No."

"Hmm?" John says, stirring next to him, just as the intercom crackles to life and the train driver mumbles something about a problem with the engine, or maybe with an engine axle, and they should be under way again shortly.

"We will be here for _hours_," Rodney declares, feeling vindicated and discomfited and nervous. He reaches for the bag of sandwiches and pulls out a ham salad roll. He always gets hungry when he's suffering that particular combination of emotions.

"So?" John says, stretching and sitting up. His hair's all flattened on one side of his head, making him look like a rather deranged hedgehog, and the outline of the strings of Rodney's hoodie are visible pressed into his stubbled cheek. "Give Jeannie a text, she'll wait for us at the station."

From outside the train, Rodney can hear a series of worrying clanks, and the sounds of engineers yelling at one another. When was the last train derailment in this country?

"It's the principle of the thing," Rodney says, swallowing his mouthful of food, "We're trapped in the Bermuda Triangle of Ireland, possibly forever, and there isn't even wi-fi. So much work that I'll never finish because I've been captured by a tribe of Munster pygmies."

John sticks his head up over the high backs of the seats, and peers first one way down the carriage, and then the other—there's a toddler running up and down the aisle in the next carriage down, its yells muffled by the closed door, but they're still basically by themselves, and hidden from sight of anyone else on the train. "Oh," he says, Galway accent getting thicker like it always does when he's sleepy, or when he's feeling mischievous, "Sure we'll think of something to keep you entertained."

"Oh?" Rodney says, frowning at his phone which persists in telling him that it can't get any signal—can't call, can't text, won't let him check his e-mail, oh god, in a couple of months they're going to find his desiccated corpse lying next to John's ridiculously good-looking one, and he hopes to god Jeannie'll be willing to take on a wrongful death suit against Iarnród Éireann on his behalf—and he wonders if beating it off the table will do any good. "What, you've found—mmfph!"

The heat of John's mouth surprises Rodney each time they kiss. It shouldn't, Rodney knows—empirical evidence from dozens of repeated and repeatable experiments has shown that John's mouth is always warm and wet and welcoming—but he shivers now just like he did the first time, the press of John's body against his so intent, so overwhelming that Rodney can't get used to it. John presses him back into the corner of the seat, settling warm on top of Rodney, his hands braced against wall and window, and Rodney's mouth opens up to John's, cool glass against the back of his head and the salt-sweet taste of John on his lips. His skin is prickling all over with anticipation and want and the ten individual points of heat that are John's fingertips skating over the soft rise of his belly.

John makes little noises of enquiry into Rodney's mouth, wordless questions of amusement and affection that Rodney answers by curling his tongue slow and sweet against John's, tangling his fingers into a messy mop of black hair, letting his breath stutter out slowly when John spreads his palms wide over the small of his back, pressing them closer together.

He's entertained, he's definitely entertained, he could be profitably employed at this for _years_, but— "Not on the train," he smiles against John's mouth, the familiar planes of John's face blurred and indistinct when seen this close, through lashes half-closed.

"We could," John wheedles, rubbing his nose against Rodney's cheek, but even as he skims his fingertips over the waistband of Rodney's jeans, he's sighing in horny-yet-thwarted resignation.

"Adrenaline junkie," Rodney says fondly, pressing one last kiss to the corner of John's mouth before pushing him back upright and sitting up with a groan.

"Yeah, Rodney," John says, rolling his eyes and tugging his t-shirt back down so that he's no longer giving the cows in the fields outside a view of his pale and hairy chest. "The Irish railways are a real draw for thrill-seekers."

"See?" Rodney says, pointing a finger at him in triumph, "I knew you'd agree with me in the end." He sits back in his seat in satisfied good humour, pours John a cup of strongly brewed tea from the flask, and insists John eats at least four sandwiches, to prevent train-wreck associated vitamin deficiencies from setting in; and if, shortly after the train starts up again and they pull slowly in to the next station, the ticket inspector surprises Rodney licking egg mayonnaise from the corner of John's smile, well, that's all part of the perils of the Irish railway, Rodney thinks, red-cheeked, as he shoves his newly stamped ticket back into his wallet and feels one of John's hands curl around the fingers of his free hand underneath the table: adrenaline where you least expect it, a long journey to who knows where.


End file.
